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In speaking California
Somehow people live with them
I am alive again
Perhaps to award self noble ink ignorance truth awards for forgotten reason folds?
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I kept the inner workings,
kept the plastic furniture
while it cracked
into multidimensional bones.
I kept (in part),
the whir of its mirroring mind.
Of course, the viewer has dimmed out
nothing in the camera fully develops,
yet images emerge.
I can catch the blurry taillights of stars,
find my way through a long-burnt corn field,
photograph photographs
yet to be imaged.
Late in the afternoon,
long shadows drive in-roads,
between paths of sunlight.
Got my Nikon on.
Locked and loaded.
The white tail just came too close,
got him!
Man did he fly when he heard,
the whir and click of a live camera!
Shot him startled and looking,
shot him leaping.
Took him down
as he disappeared
back into the deep woods.
Man,
I think I will hang
his big old beautiful head
on a wall,
somewhere at the back of my brain
forever.
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I dust a beautiful porcelain lady.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case
like a coal black memory.
I pick up a quartz crystal,
put it to my eye
don't know why.
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
I go to the Oriental grocery emporium.
Cooking into the unknown
is my space travel.
These things I do are tramlines,
These things I do are rituals
for the safe-side of my mind.
Ever since I bought the Nikon,
I have learned that people
were as much a shadow
of the sun
as a tree is a personification
of an inverted waterfall,
they all get washed-away
never fully developed.
It has been growing upon me,
this sense of exposure in a photograph,
this feeling of being of the picture
but not in the picture,
an image taken of a person
no longer there, or that never was.
It is not a moment in time,
it is a moment erasing itself
in someone else’s mind.
The mind I have now
cannot remind itself of any certain time.
A ghost-light is uncovered -
seen to be haunting itself.
When I look at these self-portraits
taken by this stranger I have become,
it is as if I am witnessing
the latter-day works
of a passing sky.
Ever since it came to me
my Nikon has been doing stupid things.
It has hung from cliff edges
just to capture an image of a small lizard
I could have photographed in my backyard.
Its gazed at clouds until imagined
dragons chased swans over the heavens
knowing all the while
that its viewfinder was triggering me.
It grew heavier on my neck
demanding I follow it into spiky brush
searching for a miniscule insect
that no one cared a damn about.
Once I fell into a creek trying to snap a heron.
I swear I heard that Nikon shutter click
just behind my floundering head.
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.
I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a
a blank memory.
At least once a fortnight.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh;
the sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.
When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog'
(my camouflaged depression),
must be driven somewhere,
and left on the side of a highway.
These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write
with no bull attached -
no one likes a fake sun.
These inconsequential acts
are rituals, observances that maintain
the safe-side of my mind
while words eat words
in the dark.
I kept its funnel-cloud eyes.
I kept the inner workings.
Kept the plastic furniture
while it cracked
into multidimensional bones.
I kept the whir of its mirroring mind.
A shutter undrapes shadows.
A shabby couch on a dusty porch,
still plays bluegrass though
a fish-eye lens.
Dancers in Beijing seep
out of digital skins.
Of course the viewer dims,
nothing in the camera fully develops,
yet images emerge.
I can now catch the blurry taillights of stars,
find my way through a long burnt corn-maze,
photograph photographs
yet to be imaged.
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.
I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a blind
coal-black memory.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh,
At least once a fortnight.
The sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.
When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog' must be driven somewhere,
and left on the edge of a highway.
I go to the Oriental grocery emporium
each month to therapy-browse.
Sometimes I buy a paste or a sauce
not having a clue how to use them.
Cooking into the unknown
is my space travel.
These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write a poem
with no black dogs attached -
no one likes a failing sun.
These things I do are rituals
for the safe-side of my mind.
~~
(‘Black-dog’ is a euphemism for depression).
Photographs
Moving pictures
Talking pictures
TV
Motion pictures
Records 45’s, 33’s,
Cameras and film
Colored photographs
Cassette tapes
Colored TVs
8 Track Tapes
Video cameras
VHS Tapes
Floppy Discs
Cameras with digital discs
CDs
I-pods
I-phones
With
a built in camera
That works better
Than my four hundred dollar Nikon,
Face-time, which reminds us of George Jetson,
Text messages - the only way some of our offspring "talk" to us.
What is next?
I-cars?
Steering wheel Bluetooth, and movies in cars is already here.
Why am I drawn
to this scowling girl
selling her poems
in a Shinjuku underpass?
Every Tuesday she is here,
next to a Nikon ad,
threatening commuters
with her cyclostyled angst.
Busy people keep up
with the times,
do a tap dance
on their smartphones.
Only drunks buy poetry.
Grubbing for their last,
sweaty coins, they
mock her with every purchase.
First published in Eclectica Magazine
Black Violets-n-Pink Roses, God revealed his self 2 me, somehow like he did Moses, like the Sun is to the Earth, I’m so important, sales from transported Columbian Cain, done provided me with a major fortune, dirty thoughts-n-desires, reading in between the lines of liars, exotic weed habits, murder for hire, up in Bentleys with panoramic views-n- bullet proof tires, told Donald Trump he F--king fired, 4 I’m Ancient Egypt King admired, scopes-n-beams AR 15, ATF, Nikon popping at my team, my lifestyle exquisite-n-extreme, for my name’s Nakym, 4 my name’s Nakym, 4 I bought the Devil’s wife soul with a gorgeous ass ruby pinky ring, the Devil blindfolded me so I couldn’t see what I once seen, vivid but more intricate than any dream, 4 God revealed his self 2 me, somehow like he did Moses, 4 my past life I chose it, blessed with a new life, so I wrote this, blessed with a new life so I wrote this, I love you Nakym, so change the world, as I wrote this, God spoke this.
Thank you
It is December 31, the last day of the year.
The nighttime sky is dark, but quite clear.
In Times Square, there is a lighted ball.
The New Year arrives when it makes its fall.
Despite the freezing cold, there is a huge crowd.
They count down the final seconds very loud.
Finally, in New York, it is 2008.
Everyone wishes each other tidings great.
While I walked around Times Square earlier in the day,
I was looking up at billboards a little to my dismay.
There was Nissan, Nikon, and Panasonic on display.
Honda and Toyota cars drove by me today.
How many of you were around on VJ Day?
Most of us are too young to remember 1945.
Very few of us who were around are still alive.
Who has seen the picture in Life Magazine,
where a sailor kissed his woman, and made a scene?
This leaves me to ask with interrogative candor:
From all I see today, who really won the war?
I see a first-time daddy holding his son’s tiny hand for the first time.
I can see a baby, creating his first soft, fragile memory in a smiling hospital bed.
I hear the constant, high-pitched beep-beep-beep-beep coming from the rigid, gray monitors
in the corner.
I can hear the sighs coming from adoring hospital staff and beloved family members.
I taste the scent of sterile materials in the cold delivery room, a freezing sensation, like
breathing in through your mouth on a cold, snow-covered day.
I can taste an exceptionally faint, bitter cloud of anesthesia still in the air from its last use.
I touch the smooth black button of my Nikon camera as I preserve another moment in this
baby’s life.
I can touch the soft, pastel-colored sheets on the hospital bed next to the new mother.
I smell the various medicines and painkillers sitting on the counter next to the stainless steel
sink.
I can smell the sharp, tangy aroma of the slippery Germ-X the doctor is applying to his
hands.
I am feeling peaceful, overjoyed that I am standing here to witness one of life’s few
miracles, and the addition of another beautiful life in this world, in this one minute.
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